


left to my own devices

by rain_of_stars



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bottom!Peter, Consensual, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 09:55:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_of_stars/pseuds/rain_of_stars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Coming here at two in the morning to escape boredom is a horrible idea. What were you going to do if I was asleep, watch me breathe until the sun came up?”<br/>Peter gives him a half-shadowed smirk and raises an eyebrow. Stiles stares in disbelief. “How is it possible that you haven’t gotten arrested yet?” </p><p>Stiles can't sleep. Peter has a few suggestions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	left to my own devices

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has changed significantly since I first thought of it, because I am apparently incapable of writing both angry sex and PWPs. I am not opposed to writing more, though, if people want it.  
> Set a week or two after 3A but before 3B. Title is from Pompeii by Bastille.

He can’t sleep. He’s usually not asleep at 2 AM anyways – too busy digging into archives or finishing one more level or running from things intent on ripping him limb from limb – but this time he really can’t sleep. Every time his head hits the pillow he just stares into the darkness, feeling it crushing him, slowly suffocating him, like being smothered by the world’s softest pillow. And then the whispering starts, just beyond the edge of actual sound, and he’s afraid that if he closes his eyes he’ll find another pair staring back at him. 

So he’s doing research instead. He might as well do something useful with his insomnia. Their current problem is dryads – specifically, those living in the trees that Jennifer Blake did her sacrifices on. Apparently the blood splashing over their roots gave them a taste for the stuff. Stiles could have happily spent the rest of his life without seeing the mess of blood and flesh and hair that remains after a dryad tries to drag a human into a tree. And as if that wasn’t enough, they seem to have decided that Scott’s pack was responsible for the current state of the Nemeton.

Stiles wonders what a dryad Nemeton would look like as he scans the tiny and badly formatted text. Some sort of woman as scarred as Jennifer, perhaps. Her bark-like skin twisted and gashed enough for the bones to poke out. Slithering her root-fingers into him and Scott and Allison, tightening them round his frantically beating heart-

The sound of the window being pushed open snaps him back to reality and he thinks _Derek_ with an almost involuntary relief. He hadn’t thought he’d miss the grumpy werewolf quite this much, but Derek had been pretty much a constant since Scott got turned and it was weird knowing he wasn’t out there, somewhere, to be begged and cajoled and blackmailed into helping if things got really bad. Stiles had composed a dozen texts but deleted them before he could send them. Everything sounded too needy or begging or just trying too hard. 

Derek didn’t need to know that, though. 

“You know, you could have picked a better time for your little family bonding road trip,” Stiles says, casually stretching as he swivels around in his chair. “We’re kind of lacking in wolfy back-up. I mean, we’ve got the twins, but they’re just not the -”

He cuts off in mid-sentence as he registers the figure standing there. Shorter than Derek, and lighter. A v-neck shirt. Brown hair.

Peter.

The werewolf raises an eyebrow. “You could always call me.”

“Maybe if I wanted to get stabbed in the back,” Stiles answers automatically. 

Peter smiles. “I’m not in the habit of wasting allies.”

“Okay, no, you’re not even at the level of trustworthy resource yet, don’t go upgrading your status like that without my consent,” Stiles says. “And why are you even here? Aren’t you supposed to be howling at the moon or scheming or something?” A thought occurs to him and his stomach clenches. “Oh god, did they get someone else?”

“Yes, there was a horrible triple murder, as you can tell by nonexistent blood spatters on my clothes and the complete lack of screaming,” Peter says, deadpan. He rolls his eyes. “No one’s dead, although they might be if you keep dragging your feet over it. This is more of a social visit.”

Stiles is about to retort that _he_ can just be the one who gets chased by a crazy tree-girl with an axe next time when his ears catch up with his brain. “You’re making _social calls_ at two in the morning?”

“Mmm. Actually I was bored and needed some entertainment, but that’s the usual extent of my social interaction,” Peter says, scrutinizing the network of clippings tacked to Stiles’ walls. “Does Derek know you’ve got every article about his arrests put up here under ‘Sourwolf’?”

“Yes,” Stiles lies. “And coming here at two in the morning to escape boredom is a horrible idea. What were you going to do if I was asleep, watch me breathe until the sun came up?”

Peter gives him a half-shadowed smirk and raises an eyebrow. Stiles stares in disbelief. “How is it possible that you haven’t gotten arrested yet?” he comes up with at last.

“Probably because I tend to carry out my business while shifted,” Peter says contemplatively. He traces a few of the lines across the wall. “You may have been able to get your father to accept the existence of werewolves, but the courts are a bit harder to convince.”

“Well, yeah,” Stiles concedes. “But I was talking more about your general air of sexual predator creepiness.”

Peter’s grin deepens. “Fortunately for me, it’s not actually a crime to incite lust in teenage boys.”

“Wow, not even going there,” Stiles says, ignoring the sudden spike in his heart rate. He turns back to the computer, despite every instinct screaming at him not to turn his back on the predator in the room. “Seriously, my room is the last place to come for fun. _I_ don’t come to my room for fun. Not since the supernatural freight train hit Beacon Hills.” He gestures to the conspiracy-theorist web of information on his walls. “Go stalk the late-night hipsters at that coffee place in your building. Or, here’s an idea, go find some of those vicious, murdering tree people, I’m sure you’ll have a lot to talk about.”

Silence. Not the comfortable kind or the sullen, one-upped kind, Stiles realizes as the hairs on the back of his neck slowly rise, but the kind that falls when a hunter sees his prey practically wander into his lap.

“I never told you where my apartment was.”

Stiles’ heart jumps. “I just – thought I’d look it up,” he says, voice a little too high. He coughs. “I mean – someone should know where everybody lives, in case of – things,” he finishes lamely. “You know, keep your friends close-”

“And your enemies closer,” Peter says, and how is he already _right there_. He’s crossed the floor from the collection of Derek articles tacked up near Stiles’ headboard (because it was convenient, shut up) and is practically breathing down Stiles’ neck, or he would be if Stiles hadn’t turned to face him and ended up with a gorgeous faceful of abs. Not good. Definitely not good. “And which one am I, Stiles?”

Peter’s blue eyes bore into Stiles and he swallows. “An annoyance,” he says, struggling to find safer ground. “Did you randomly show up to annoy Derek and Cora too? You totally did, didn’t you,” he accuses as Peter rolls his eyes and steps back a pace. “I wondered why you were always hanging around the loft.”

“For your information, Derek gave me an open invitation to the place,” Peter says dryly. “I just chose to interpret that more… liberally than he did.”

“Did that open invitation sound something like ‘don’t come anywhere near me unless there are other people actively trying to kill me’?”

“Possibly,” Peter admits. “But that’s hardly rare around here. Especially for him.” He shakes his head in mock chagrin. “You’d think he would appreciate my offering to help.”

“Yeah, because criticizing every move he makes and sharing stories about his dead girlfriend is so helpful,” Stiles says pointedly. “I thought you lived there until you told me otherwise, and then it was just weird. I’d almost think you were doing it for the company or-” 

Stiles stops as the pieces come together in his head, because _oh_. 

“You wanted pack. You were _lonely_ ,” he breathes.

Peter freezes by the wall. His shoulders stiffen. “Hardly. I was there to make sure no one got it into their heads to kill me again. My nephew doesn’t have a track record of making the best decisions.”

“You know that just makes you sound more guilty,” Stiles declares, enjoying the hell out of the newfound chink in Peter’s armor. It was far too rare that he got a chance to give back what he got. “Holy crap, you’re like that kid in Home Alone, aren’t you? They _left without you_ and now you’re lonely. That’s why you’re here. They just up and left you and they didn’t even _care-_ ”

“You’re one to talk,” Peter sneers back suddenly. His eyes flash and his hands flex like he’s trying to keep in his claws. “Lydia chose an alpha despite every warning you tried to give her and Scott deserted you for the alpha pack. Derek and Cora left you without even a goodbye. You’re the one left cowering behind your research and smashed weapons because no matter what you do, you’re _human_ and _helpless_ and they don’t even care enough to come see if you’re _losing your mind_.”

The words land like a punch to the gut and it takes a long few seconds for Stiles to draw in breath past the hurt. “Fuck you,” he says with as much venom as he can manage, and turns away.

He doesn’t see the words on the screen for several minutes as the bitterness swirls inside him. Because they haven’t come by. Lydia has been nursing Aiden back to health ( _and how much care does a werewolf need, anyway?_ ) and Scott’s been busy dividing his time between homework and saving lives. Allison and Isaac have been drifting into their own little world. And Derek…

Stiles clicks several links viciously and at random, ignoring the thick silence behind him. Derek obviously doesn’t care about a place that holds so many bad memories. It’s not like he had people left who cared about him. It’s not like he had _friends_.

“I’d like that.”

Stiles blinks and finds that he’s looking at an article on Persephone. “What?” he asks, turning around. 

There’s an expression on Peter’s face that’s as close to wistful as Stiles has ever seen. It’s quickly masked by the usual cocky amusement, and Peter shrugs and starts to take his shirt off. “It’s fine with me. Certainly a good way to pass the time. I understand that the first time is often a little nerve-wracking and you might like a little more control. It’s been a while since I’ve bottomed, but I’d be more than happy to if it gets you-”

“Whoa, slow down, _what?_ Stop taking your clothes off!” he says, because Peter has kicked off his shoes and is going for the top button of his jeans. 

Peter stops and looks up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Can’t say I’ve often had that reaction.” 

“Okay, this is so not about your ego right now,” Stiles says, starting to get up to move farther away from Peter and sitting back down as he realizes any movement would just bring him closer. “Would you just – people don’t usually apologize with sex. At least, not outside of porn. And not to me. Not that I would _mind,_ particularly-”

“You think I’m apologizing?” Peter interrupts, all offended pride. 

Stiles pauses. “Yeah, you’re right, that would require you to have some degree of empathy. I take it back.”

Peter shoots him a dirty look and then sighs, his shoulders dropping. “As much as you hate to believe it, sometimes I really am capable of having no ulterior motive other than getting laid.”

“Now _that_ I don’t believe in the slightest, but – supposing I did,” Stiles says, ignoring a warning growl from the werewolf. “Supposing you’re just horny and not saying sorry in a really kinky way.” He spreads his hands. “Why me?”

This time both eyebrows go up and Peter studies him for a minute. “You’re joking,” he says eventually. 

Stiles glares. 

Peter’s brow furrows. “You’re not joking.” He runs a hand through his hair and regards Stiles with a serious expression. “Well. Despite your occasional bouts of dim-wittedness and your tendency to dress in clothes that fit you like a linebacker’s hand-me-downs, you’re still one of the few people in this town who are both intelligent and attractive enough to interest me. Faced with an alpha, you fight back; faced with a problem, you find a solution. Those are all parts of it. But if you’re asking why tonight-”

Peter steps towards him and Stiles tenses. “Maybe you were right about why I came here,” Peter says, low and intimate. “But I’m not the only one here in need of… company. Am I?”

There’s just enough light from the computer screen to highlight Peter’s features, all angles and curves and shadows. His eyes aren’t glowing blue but they might as well be with the way they focus on Stiles, holding his gaze. Stiles tries to look anywhere else and finds his gaze sliding over the smooth muscle of Peter’s shoulders. His chest. The cut-outs of his hips disappearing beneath the still-unbuttoned jeans. He aches to reach out and trace those lines, his body warring between desire and caution.

A low sound reaches his ears and he looks up to see Peter staring at him hungrily. Stiles can’t pretend he wasn’t looking, but the words to say yes or no just won’t come. He stares at Peter, his breathing heavy in his ears, wishing he could move.

Peter takes a small step forward and picks up his wrist, rubbing it with a thumb. “Stiles,” he says. Soft the way he isn’t, ever. “Please.”

Stiles’ paralysis cracks and he hears himself say “Yeah, okay,” as he stands up and takes Peter’s other hand. They’re almost the same height, and he stores that fact away to be smug about later as he leans forward and kisses the older man.

It’s scratchier than he thought it would be, which is annoying, but Peter’s lips are soft, and he parts them readily as Stiles probes deeper. Heat pools in Stiles’ gut as he tastes coffee and something metallic. He doesn’t know where to put his hands. He settles for one cupping the back of Peter’s neck and one resting lightly on his waist. Peter has no such compunctions, and Stiles yelps as both hands grab his ass. 

Peter’s grin is lecherous as Stiles pulls back to glare at him. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” he points out, toying with the hem of Stiles’ shirt. 

“I thought I was supposed to be the one grabbing your ass,” Stiles says as he quickly strips off the offending clothing.

“Too slow,” Peter says, divesting himself of his jeans and catching Stiles in another kiss as he takes off his boxers. Stiles moans into Peter’s mouth as he feels the heat of their erections separated by a thin layer of fabric. He’s getting harder by the minute, and Peter is nothing but encouraging, all licks and nips and wandering hands. 

He breaks for air, taking in deep breaths as Peter comments, “You know, there _is_ a bed right here. Not that wall sex doesn’t have its charms, but I’d probably be the one holding you up.” 

Stiles opens his mouth to retort and catches the glint in Peter’s eye. Despite his admirable attempt to sound cool and collected, his pupils are wider than the low light of the room accounts for and his breathing is quick and ragged. 

Stiles takes in a last gulp of air and straightens his shoulders. “Yeah? You got any ideas as to how we can put it to better use?” He puts an arm around Peter’s waist and starts to maneuver him towards the bed.

Peter’s smile tells him he’s on the right track. “A few,” he says, and kisses the boy again as he pulls Stiles down on top of him.

They keep making out as Peter wriggles out of his boxers and takes both of them in hand. A wave of pleasure rolls through Stiles and he gasps, rolling his hips. Peter works his hand back and forth, and it’s a little dry and a different rhythm but the friction is so much better than anything Stiles has felt before.

A thought occurs to him and he pulls back. “Wait, I’ve got some-” he says, scrabbling for his nightstand drawer. Peter wordlessly accepts the bottle of lube he brings out and Stiles hears the pop of a cap as he feels around for the other item he bought surreptitiously at a convenience store. 

“Okay, got it,” he says, locating the foil packet and holding it up triumphantly. Peter looks at the condom and frowns. “What?” Stiles asks self-consciously. “I practice safe sex.”

Peter sighs. “If you want. But you do know that werewolves can’t catch or carry sexual diseases, and I can hardly get pregnant.”

“No, actually, I must have missed the part of sex ed where they taught us about supernatural creatures,” Stiles says, nettled. Peter says nothing, and Stiles wavers before dropping the packet back into the drawer. 

“I’m taking your word for this,” he warns Peter as he straddles the man’s hips. 

“A bad idea in general, but I’ll try to keep from stretching the truth tonight,” Peter says.

Stiles groans as a hundred dirty jokes flood through his mind. “You did that on purpose,” he accuses, and the son of a bitch actually laughs.

Stiles gives him a kiss to the neck for that, sucking and biting hard enough to leave a mark that should take a few minutes to fade. He’s momentarily disappointed that the hickey won’t last when Peter groans quietly and he realizes that Peter’s hand is busy somewhere below him. “Are you-” Stiles says, sitting back.

Peter’s lube-covered fingers are already working him open, and Stiles watches, mesmerized. He touches his hand and Peter stops. “I could-” Stiles says. “I could help.”  He swallows. “I mean, if you’d let me.”

Peter nods. “Be my guest,” he murmurs, and lays back, spreading his legs wider.

The lube bottle is laying on the side of the bed, and Stiles uses a bit more on his own hand for safety’s sake. Then he cautiously presses two fingers in. It’s hot and slick and so tight – Peter wasn’t lying when he said it had been a while. Stiles might be his first since the fire, and the thought makes his dick throb. He takes a deep breath and pushes in further, searching for the spot that will make Peter fall apart.

If the way Peter suddenly clutches at the bed and moans is any indication, he’s found it. Stiles grins and starts scissoring his fingers. He takes his time, finding out exactly what movements produce which needy, breathless sounds from the man.

“If you don’t _get on with it_ , I’m going to leave you with a case of blue balls that lasts for _weeks,_ ” Peter snarls, gripping the bedsheets like he wishes they were Stiles’ neck.

Or he could just go ahead and fuck Peter.

“Okay, point taken,” Stiles says, withdrawing his fingers. Peter steals a pillow to slide under his hips as Stiles slicks himself up, shaky with nerves and excitement. He has a feeling this might be embarrassingly brief.

“Ready?” he asks, positioning himself at Peter’s entrance. 

“Yes,” Peter says, and Stiles has to look away from the heat and possession in those eyes. Instead, he pushes his way in.

Peter makes a sort of happy sigh, which Stiles considers incredible because he’s holding his breath and trying not to come on the first thrust. He’s pretty sure he can feel Peter’s heartbeat through the warmth and slickness surrounding him and it’s intimate in a way he hadn’t even considered. He takes several shuddering breaths.

A hand lands on his waist and squeezes lightly. “Stiles?” Peter asks. 

Stiles shakes his head at the unasked question. “I’m fine,” he says, and dares a slight thrust of the hips, sending a wave of pleasure through him. “ _Oh_ yeah. Good, actually. Really good.”

Peter grins and pulls on Stiles’ waist. “It gets better.”

It takes a few awkward minutes to get better, in fact, Stiles working out where he should be and where Peter’s legs should be and how to keep a steady rhythm, Peter murmuring encouragement the whole time, which adds another dimension of the surreal to the whole thing. But the problems get dealt with, and then it’s just skin on slick skin, his breathing hard and fast and pleasure reaching a new peak at each moment. Peter’s back arches as he meets each thrust, stroking himself in time. His low moans drive Stiles ever faster until he’s teetering at the brink.

Stiles steals a glance at Peter and realizes that his eyes are shut, a look of ecstasy on his face. Suddenly, irrationally, he needs Peter to look at him, to acknowledge that this is between the two of them and not whatever fantasy he’s picturing. “Hey,” he says. “Peter, look at me.” 

The man doesn’t respond. Stiles grasps his shoulder, giving an extra hard thrust. “Peter!”

Peter’s eyes snap open, and Stiles gets a glimpse of that startling blue before he’s coming, hard, and he hears Peter groan and feels wetness splash his stomach and for some reason it seems like the most logical thing to lean forward and bite Peter on the shoulder, right on that swell of muscle between arm and neck. Then the moment is over. 

Stiles’ arms give up any pretense of strength and he half-slides, half-collapses onto Peter’s chest. Peter nudges him off after a few panting breaths, and Stiles lets him, pulling out on the way. He can’t see much – his computer must have finally gone into sleep mode - and his body is soaking in the afterglow, but he thinks he sees Peter prop himself up and touch the bite with a kind of reverence. “That,” he says, loses his thought, tries again. “Didn’t mean to. I think. Sorry.”

A hand brushes through his hair. “You don’t need to be.”

The bedsprings creak noisily as Peter shifts and gets up, padding across the room to the door. Stiles squints against the flare of the hall light. Then the door shuts again and Stiles is left in darkness.

He dozes off without meaning to and startles awake to find Peter cleaning off his stomach with a damp washcloth. Peter presses a kiss to the skin when he’s done, giving Stiles a funny tight feeling. He feels the presence move away and hears the rustle of cloth. “Don’t use the door,” Stiles says, yawning.

Peter’s outline pauses. “I wasn’t planning on leaving just yet.”

Stiles blinks. “What’re you going to do, then?”

The sound of a chair being moved across carpet. The creak of a man’s weight settling into it.

“Watch you breathe until the sun comes up.”

Stiles laughs at that and thinks he hears a soft chuckle in return. The idea doesn’t bother him any more, somehow. “Fine. For tonight. Just don’t let my dad catch you.”

“Mm,” Peter says in agreement. He pulls the sheet up to cover Stiles. “Sleep tight.”

The darkness of the room is just darkness. No voices whisper to him; no roots writhe at corner of his vision. He knows it won’t last, but Peter’s presence seems to have driven out the rest of his demons. 

“Night,” he says to Peter, and slips at last into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

 


End file.
